Return of the "Old Boy"

“Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory." Haruki Murakami

A silver Prius with out-of-state plates turned left from State Highway 29 onto Burbeck Drive entering an “upscale” housing development. The driver then pulled over to the side and parked. He sat for a moment checking his position with Google Maps on his smart phone.  If it were not for the GPS he would never have recognized this location. It had changed so completely since he was last here.

It was a sunny but cool fall afternoon. The driver, a casually but well dressed man in his 70’s with thinning white hair got out of the car to have a better look around the area. He started to walk the winding drive through this quiet well groomed neighborhood of broad lawns surrounding tastefully landscaped homes, trying to remember the first time he had seen this place more than 60 years before,

Given his generally conservative appearance and age, and if you had known what brought him here, you might wonder if his slight limp was due to an old war wound, perhaps a consequence of the country’s many fruitless military adventures of the past half century. But, the limp was only the the result of a mild sprain suffered while hiking in Acadia National Park a few days earlier. His real war wounds were of a type that leaves no visible scars.

Many years ago this location was on the outskirts of a village in upstate New York which had been settled in the early 1800’s. It was one of several towns named then for the famous generals of ancient Rome - Marcellus, Pompey, Cicero and others. The name was particularly fitting for the institution that dominated this landscape for a hundred years after its founding in the wake of the American Civil War. However, in recent years, the village had been swallowed by the metastasizing sprawl of the nearby metropolis. The institution, had ultimately been felled by changing societal tastes and demographics. The school was sold and the grounds developed as bedroom housing for lawyers, young doctors, and managers commuting to the city center.

Sixty five years ago he had arrived here, barely a teenager, in a Ford “woody” station wagon, the classic mid-century family vehicle with real wood side panels. It was about an hours drive from the tiny village deep in farm country where he had grown up, but it was light-years away socially and culturally.  Yet, he didn’t remember feeling any fear of this new adventure that first day. On the contrary, he was looking forward to escaping the confines of that sheltered but constricting world he had previously inhabited. 

Even the military organization of school life seemed to be a necessary and fitting initiation into that most noble pursuit of real men.  Many in his father’s generation had gone to war to defeat the empires of evil, had, at least in theory, preserved freedom, and saved the world. Some would boast publicly of exaggerated feats of arms. Others never spoke, not wanting to relive the reality of their war. Those who had not returned were forever silent. But, they were the “greatest generation” with accomplishments to which all were to aspire.

As he walked the quiet drive and tried to call up memories of his time here, it surprised him how little he actually remembered of those four years. Only a handful of people or specific events came to mind. For the most part the memories were generic remembrances. Even the memories of his first arrival and internment at the school were a blur of impressions rather than specific scenes and characters. 

He remembered a reception area in a small building which at other times served as a sort of recreation room and ice cream parlor. (The hours it would be open were few and best avoided by a “new boy” who wished to avoid the hazing of older cadets.) His father would have signed some papers. The “new boy” would have been assigned to Company B, and directed to a three story ivy covered brick building across a parking lot.  There an upperclassman would have helped him carry a footlocker to a third floor room and a meeting with a room mate, a stranger, name now forgotten, who would share his trials but never become a true friend. No parental help was needed or allowed.  Long goodbyes were discouraged and emotional displays of affection not to be indulged. His parents and younger brother left promptly not to be seen again for many weeks.

The footlocker was a sheet metal box with hinged lid. It was of a size to fit neatly at the foot of the iron cot which would serve as his bed.  The footlocker and its contents had been purchased and stocked according to a mimeographed sheet of very detailed instructions. Underwear, bathrobe, slippers, comb and brush all of a specific approved type. Anything personal had been strongly discouraged. Some may have had a tennis racquet or ball glove. No record players, games, or radios were allowed. Smart phones, tablets, and computers were far in the future. All the clothing he would need would be issued to him during the next few days: an olive drab wool service uniform with "Eisenhower" jacket and a dress blue uniform with brass buttons, white web belt, and enormous brass buckle. These uniforms were quite similar to then current US Army styles. The clothing in which he had arrived, no longer of any use, would soon be mailed home. 

The first few days were filled learning the essential skills for life in this new military culture. He would learn how to do a proper military salute, who and what to salute. As a “new boy” the latter was easy. He was to salute any animate object, and a few inanimate objects. It was essential to learn the significance of various embroidered chevrons, braid aiguillettes of several colors, brass and silver bars and stars. He needed to quickly learn his place in a squad, a platoon, a company, and battalion, and how to perform the various movements of close order drill that enable these formations to move in perfect unison. 

Virtually every movement, to daily morning chapel service, to all meals, and to any sort of assembly was to be made marching in formation. An hour every afternoon with his platoon and company would be devoted to drill practice for formal parades with the classic choreography of the battalion. This was complete with trooping the colors, accompanied by a brass band playing Sousa's "Washington Post March". Could he still hear its echoes here faintly? Or was it just the tinitus caused by the 40mm guns in Vietnam.

There were other skills necessary to survival. His iron cot had to be made up immediately upon waking with a bugle calling reveille. The flat white sheets and scarlet wool blanket printed with the school emblem in black, were to be made up with precision folds at the corners and pulled taught over the thin and slightly concave mattress. It had to be free of wrinkles and made tight like a drum head. A quarter tossed on it by an inspecting officer would have to bounce into the air to pass daily muster.

Using Brasso to shine insignia and belt buckles had been an easy task to learn, although achieving the perfection necessary to pass inspection took attention to detail. The skill most prized was perfecting the shine on the toe of the leather combat boots which were the standard daily footwear. With Shinola and a wad of cotton moistened with spit, an amazing mirror-like finish could be achieved even on that relatively rough leather. It was, however, fragile and had to be renewed daily in the best of circumstances. But, carefully maintained, it increased in depth and gloss. To even accidentally step on another cadet’s toe was to risk instant death and dismemberment, or at least the intention.

Coming upon a view of his old dormitory, the Company B barracks, the “old boy” alumnus of the former school could see that it had been converted into an apartment building. He remembered the guard room by the entrance where he had been assigned a rifle that would be his responsibility for the year. A genuine fully operational .30 caliber M1 Garand, the infantry weapon that won WWII and served well in the Korean conflict.  At 10 lbs it was heavy but well balanced for performing the manual of arms and fancy drills. His rifle would be kept locked in a rack in the guardroom with the others of Company B when not being used for daily inspections, drill, Sunday parades, and cleaning.  He remembered learning to field strip (disassemble) it for cleaning and being able to reassemble it in the dark by feel.  

Turning up a street now called Commandant Way, the “old boy” could recognize the old classroom building converted to office spaces. He remembered with some pleasure the courses he had taken there. Four years each of English, mathematics through calculus, science including a college level physics, and four years of German language study. With some regret for not having been more thankful at the time, he now realized that the third and fourth years of German, in which he was the only student, were a precious gift from the instructor. They certainly could only have been offered in addition to the instructor’s normal teaching responsibilities.

Military Science was the one class his contemporaries in public school would probably not have recognized. It covered such things as squad level infantry tactics, how to establish defensive positions with fields of fire, how to use terrain and move to attack an enemy position, how to throw a grenade (no live ones allowed - yet), how to disassemble and clean a .30 caliber machine gun, how to set up and aim a mortar. There were also classes in what was called "leadership" which taught high minded principles soon forgotten by most, since they seemed irrelevant to everyday existence.

The "old boy" reached the top of the hill where the old school buildings had stood and turned to return to his car. His thoughts also turned to the other more subtle but important lessons he learned at that school so long ago. Although the school was organized as an infantry battalion with a well defined hierarchy of cadet officers, sergeants, corporals, and privates, there was another parallel hierarchy. This parallel structure was more loosely defined than the pseudo-military organization. Learning its rules was more difficult, but of greater utility in later life.

Varsity athletes constituted a social caste which the “old boy” had seen immediately as different. All of these athletes were serving a year between finishing a normal public high school and entering the U. S. Military Academy at West Point. They were a year older than any of the other cadets, and most if not all were from working class families who could not have afforded to send their sons to a private boarding school and certainly not to college. Their meals were different, for instance they were served steak rather than the “mystery meat” the rest of the cadets were served. They were excused from some of the duties required of other cadets. But not as a privilege. They paid their dues on the athletic fields. It was also assumed that if "washed out" by injury or lack of sufficient skill they would soon find themselves employed back at the mill where their fathers toiled. They were a kind of modern gladiator.

Another group were those from wealthy families. As he walked back to his car along Burbeck Way he realized he had not really understood this group until later in life. Most, he remembered, had not been high achievers in any way, but they were assured of college admission by a father’s donation to a new building or endowed chair. Some, however, enjoyed the power over others that they could have as cadet officers and thrived in this environment. Many it seemed had been privileged by wealth and class to attend this school in lieu of being locked up in what was then called "reform school". Tormenting the younger cadets was their specialty. Later the “old boy” would learn that this trait had a name defined in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association - antisocial personality disorder or psychopathy, frequently accompanied by narcissism. He also now knew that, given sufficient wealth, this disorder was no barrier to high political office.

The group to which the “old boy” had belonged were the scholarship students. Those of academic promise, but whose parents could not afford tuition. He had always assumed that the school took these few poor but high achieving students to maintain some minimum academic credibility. It was hard to believe that it had been due to any altruistic motive. 

He along with others in this select group were favored with a unique learning experience. They were assigned from the first day as student waiters in the dining hall. Each of about thirty tables had places for the eight students of a squad and a student waiter. The waiter always sat at the same table with the members of his squad with whom he also lived and marched. But, he clearly had a different status.

The student waiter reported to the mess hall a half hour prior to meals, put on a white apron, and set the table to which he was assigned. After the other students filed in, and stood at attention, the cadet Officer of the Day said grace, and ordered all to sit, The waiter then brought trays of food from the kitchen to be served family style by the cadet officer at the head of the table.  After the other students filed out, the waiter cleared the table and took the dishes to the kitchen for the dishwashers. Three meals a day seven days a week. 

But, there were some valuable lessons and experiences not shared by the more affluent cadets. One of the few people the “old boy” remembered by name from those days was the kitchen manager and head cook. Middle aged and obese, Bill supervised a crew of mentally retarded men who prepared the food and washed the dishes.  Though never easy on the student waiters, Bill must also have had some sympathy for them as fellow members of his caste. Sometimes the “old boy” remembered, there would be some extra deserts they might have when the work was done. Remembering those times, the “old boy” thought it was an experience that Dickens could have made into a novel.

Back at his car the “old boy” reflected on his experience at this school. He realized that his experience here shared the essential features of a male education with a tradition extending back millennia to medieval Europe, ancient Sparta, and perhaps into the mists of prehistory. A total absence of compassion or any feminine influence was a defining feature. He had been taught that the greatest honor was to be gained in killing other humans, those not of his tribe. He was only glad that before his time strangling a Helot slave had been dropped as a graduation requirement. 

The "old boy" got in, started the car, and turned back to the NY Thruway entrance. He now knew it was curiosity, not what the Portuguese call saudade, that had brought him here. He would never need to return.